Surprise Café
by Mycroft-mione
Summary: John is well acquainted with Anthea, Mycroft's PA, from the many times she has helped kidnap him. John is also well acquainted with Mary, his new date and girlfriend. Funny how he has never seen the two of them together...
1. Surprise Café

**Author's Note:**

**Inspired by An Escaped Rabbit's reader challenge. Check out her profile for details!**

* * *

_Prelude_

John's personal philosophy was simple: until the day Sherlock was willingly nice to Anderson, nothing could surprise him.

It was accurate for quite a long time. So long, in fact, that John was almost positive it would hold true forever. After all, he had spent ten years an army doctor, when danger were the norm, the selection of the hour. A bomb could go off anywhere, an enemy attack could commence anytime─John still dreamed about his war days sometimes.

As a civilian doctor too, he had to be ready for anything─more often than not, things like keeping a straight face when that paranoid lady who thought she had the Ebola virus asked for an antibiotic pill. And living with Sherlock Holmes, John completely expected the flat to be a disaster area when he came home─whether it be a cloud of down feathers adrift in the sitting room or insect parts littering the kitchen floor.

But John knew that someday, his luck would fade. He wouldn't be fazed by a surprise birthday party, or a body part in the fridge, or anything as trivial as that. No, it would have to be something really spectacular to surprise the rock that was John Watson.

* * *

John was seated in the most remote corner of the café, waiting anxiously and cursing at his failing courage, as his vanilla caramel latte accepted the fact that despite the great pains its procurer had taken in ordering it correctly, it wouldn't be drunk anytime soon. Just as the latte's whipped cream began to wilt, the bells on the cafe's door rang once again and John's ears perked up.

Maybe that woman was _her_!

He leaned awkwardly to see past the shoulders of his neighbor - who was remarkably unaware, buried in his laptop - catching a glimpse of a lavender silk blouse and coiffed dirty blonde hair. John coughed suddenly. He panicked, imagining fifteen sets of eyes staring at him, so he hid his face, leaning into the corner, where he stifled his coughs and inwardly winced at the embarrassing incident. John waited, counting silently to himself (_one, two, three_), until he had reached thirty and hoped the café had returned to its collective business, not continued to gaze at his face. Fortunately, the chatter of hungry Londoners was continuous and he was able to look around without drawing attention to himself. Where was she? John spotted three dirty blondes seated at tables, only two of whom were female, and none of which were wearing purple. His field of vision was suddenly interrupted by a green-apple-crayon-colored green apron.

"Excuse me, sir?" the waitress said. John refocused his eyes. She was quite good-looking... But he pinched himself, remembering his purpose.

"Yes?" He folded his arms in an attempt to appear dignified. The waitress (whose name happened to be Jeanette) inwardly rolled her eyes. She leaned over the table, clutching a black leather-textured menu in her hands.

"I'm looking for a Dr. John Watson? He's wanted at the counter. His date is looking for him."

"That would be me... erm… and you're the lucky winner in finding me..." stammered John. "Thanks, I'll go now," he amended.

John grabbed his jacket, and in an unusual moment of forethought, quickly turned again to take his latte also, heading towards the center of the café. That's when he saw his date properly for the first time. John realized that his view of her seat at the counter had been interrupted by an inconvenient segment of wall, and sighed in relaxation, knowing that he wasn't crazy.

John inched towards her seat, suddenly aware that he was speechless. He had absolutely no idea what to say to her. Possibilities rushed through his head. "_Hello, my name is Dr. John Watson._" Too formal. "_Hi, I'm John Watson. I'm a GP._" Nah, that just sounded awkward. "_The waitress pointed me towards you. Are you my date_?" No, way too clueless...

His body, acting upon its own will, stepped forwards and took the empty seat adjacent to her.

"Um, hi."

"Hi!" she answered.

"Are you─?"

"Yes... so you're─?"

"Yes."

"I don't suppose...?"

"Yes?"

"Your name?"

"Oh... I'm John Watson," said John. In his mind, he exhaled out of relief for his brief success.

'Thank goodness,' his brain said. _What_? he asked himself. 'You didn't mess that one up. That's a first.' _Hey_... he said to himself. _I'm not called Three Continents Watson for nothing_. 'Well, you're not exactly the dating type', his brain challenged. _That's true_, he thought.

"That's a nice name," said the woman. "I like it."

"Oh, come on," he answered, disbelievingly. "You can't possibly believe 'John' is nice. There's probably five other Johns here right now! My name is the opposite of unique."

"It's nice all the same. I'm... Mary," she said.

"Now that is a name..." John mused, running his fingers over his chin in the style of The Thinker. "Plenty of charm, easy on the tongue, historical relevance...now that's a name."

"Stop it!" she said, wearing the expression of a child stealing chocolate, who knows she is going to be caught but does it anyway. Mary's mouth quirked as she smiled knowingly at him.

"Like to sit somewhere else? A booth maybe?"

John followed Mary as they found a waitress and arranged themselves a nicer table, disbelieving of his luck. Sure, she was beautiful, but she seemed sweet and funny as well. After they had both gotten settled, Mary started to ask the typical get-to-know-you questions.

"So... what do you do?"

"I'm a GP. I mean, I was an army doctor, but now I'm a GP. What about you?"

"Oh, this and that..."

"I told you mine."

"About now, I'm a nurse. I... work at St. Bartholomew's."

"Really? It's strange we haven't met... when did you start working there? Because I work there too."

"Just two weeks ago," said Mary, after counting on her fingers quickly.

"Oh, that explains it. You see, I haven't been in for a week or so..."

John growled to himself and performed a barely noticeable, angry eyebrow roll.

Mary thought she heard John mutter the words 'Sherlock,' experiment,' and 'bloody hell.'

"Excuse me?" she said. "Sorry─did you say something?"

"It's nothing. Only, my flatmate─"

"Flatmate?"

"Oh─yeah. His name is Sherlock. He's a real pain. He hates when I invite women over..."

John, saying this, realized how it sounded, and backpedaled. "I mean, in theory. I hardly ever invite anyone over anyway─not that I'm not sociable, I have loads of friends, both genders─"

"John," said Mary. "Whatever you were trying to say just now─"

John winced, then laughed.

"Let's just forget about it."

They looked around the café in alternate directions, suddenly unsure of what to say. Mary looked down at her phone, which cast a faint light on her face. John noticed a few people leaving the building, and checked his mobile surreptitiously also ─ at least he meant to. Instead, his phone started blaring, showing an incoming call from Sherlock. John had a double-take. Due to Sherlock's almost-mantra of, "I prefer to text," John had hardly ever received a call from his flatmate. He imagined the worst and instantly stood up.

"I'm so, so sorry, Mary, but I really have to go," he said, grabbing his jacket and scribbling something on his check, fumbling for a few notes to pay for his unfinished latte.

"I've got it," she said. "It's okay, John."

"No, it's not. I shouldn't be doing this. But I think it's an emergency─"

"Just go!"

"When can I meet you again?!"

"Invite me over like one of those girlfriends you mentioned."

John wasn't sure how to react to this request. His mouth was open, but silent in his uncertainty.

"Kidding. But you can if you'd like. Here's my number - call me if you don't see me at work, whenever you like," she said quickly.

"Thanks!" answered John. He reached forward and held her hand between his own. "My lady."

There was a pause as Mary looked up from her hand into John's eyes. Then she frowned.

"I thought you had to be somewhere!"

"Oh─I do─"

"But thanks..." said Mary, smiling.

"Of course," he replied. "Bye for now!"

"Good bye, John!"

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

And he was gone, running out the door, his jacket billowing out behind him like his flatmate's infamous black coat. Mary was left to pay for the check herself, but she didn't mind. Her mind was still buzzing with thoughts about her meeting with the hapless, tough, kind, healer, John Watson.


	2. Mycroft's Plan

**A/N: Chapter two! This will perhaps introduce how my story relates to An Escaped Rabbit's marvelous prompt! So ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE?**

***crowd answers YAASSS***

**Hope you enjoy! Read and review please, as always?**

**And because I always forget to say this: I own nothing. Not even one lock of Benny's hair... :'(**

* * *

Enter username: _ _ _ _

The cursor blinked steadily on the provided line. Mycroft scowled. There were two ways to unlock a computer: the tedious, civilian way, and the Way of The British Government. It wasn't hard to guess which way he himself preferred.

Mycroft typed into the blank quickly, recalling the letters and digits with obnoxious ease.

_Gx27950fje108_

It responded with an irritating 'ding'.

Enter password: _ _ _ _

He obliged the machine. The whole ordeal wasn't in any way difficult, simply unnecessary. The best way to do things was clearly to install retina scanners in all computers: a foolproof, instantaneous method. Only, _some people_ had objected, with ridiculous claims:

"You could be kidnapped, and forced to divulge sensitive information from the computer using an eye scanner, in a matter of seconds. Mr. Holmes, we simply cannot afford to take that risk."

He had responded coolly yet sarcastically, with irrefutable logic.

"And, of course, a pass-word system would remove _any_ possibility of myself being forced to divulge a code. _No_ assassin would just... _kill me,_ if I happened to give them the wrong password... on purpose..."

"Thank you! I'm glad you have chosen to see sense at last."

It never failed. Even the 'brightest, most important persons' in The British Government were, to be perfectly candid, absolute idiots compared to himself. It was a wonder the building hadn't fallen down yet.

Obviously, no assassin would have even a remote chance of threatening Mycroft, thanks to his massive intellect and knowledge of self-defense. But if they did, a password system would be a hilarious lack of resistance against the theft of government secrets. Alas, the stubborn British Government failed to realize that.

Mycroft returned to the arduous task at hand.

_Lni276k_

_Lni276k3lm_

_Lni276k3lm405_

He scanned the dialogue box, and then clicked "log in".

"Wonderful," he commented wryly. "Only six more to go."

* * *

Mycroft entered his next six usernames and passwords in the six separate computers that surrounded the first:

_R19bcy8zfp684_ and _Erw273rsq01h5_,

_Eavk7jti9uxd5_ and _SclhOmk681230_,

_Gvde730645jgu_ and _Tkma5100pPfy7_,

_O43qus82uddnj_ and _Rn61ktyofiply_,

_Rot04tgpj340t_ and _Aj53t8wra9ek7_,

_Ycok39gloh224_ and _DEajkr709guis_.

He was slightly fatigued after entering all seven pairs, and heard a rumble coming from somewhere behind him...in him? Mycroft realized with alarm that his stomach was rumbling. He was hungry.

"Anthea, would you mind─?" he called towards the next room.

"What flavor?"

"Carrot. Leave off the frosting," Mycroft said mournfully. Cream cheese frosting was his favorite, but he had received one too many taunts from Sherlock about his weight. He waited until the click of Anthea's high heels (_red, slightly worn on left pinkie toe area, bought two months ago at Harrods..._) had retreated and then continued with his chore.

Mycroft was already at the specific webpage on each computer, stroking his chin as he debated the answer to each question. _Favorite color? Favorite activities?_ He didn't know these things off the top of his head, but they could be easily deduced. Mycroft entered his mind palace, searching the chambers of the country estate for the necessary information. With no luck on one side of the information spectrum, he decided to call his PA for the remaining answers.

"Anthea?"

"Here," she said smoothly, appearing by his side ─ at the door, where he was standing to prevent her from entering any further. She spoke again, her voice surprised but necessarily restrained. "Mr. Holmes?"

"I see no need for you to advance any further, Anthea," he maintained sternly. She nodded slowly and turned on her heels, walking away swiftly. _That's strange_, she thought. _Why is Mycroft on a dating site?_

* * *

It had been Mycroft's goal for weeks to arrange something between John and his PA. The matter was quite simple, really. He himself wanted─well, needed─Sherlock's contentment in order to do his job well. Sherlock needed John to be happy, and not always 'in the way', even though they were practically inseparable on those cases of his. John─well, John was who he, Mycroft, was trying to set up. By Mycroft's estimate, John had dated over 15 different women over the last two years. Clearly, none of the above 15 could have been a good match for the good doctor. Now, Mycroft wasn't a romantic (far from it), but he knew that John was missing a certain quality in his dates. It could be intelligence, it could be character, it could be something financial, it could be her beauty. Mycroft, unfortunately, had to admit that he did not know what that quality was. But he was certain that the moment he saw it, he would recognize it.

Now, Anthea. She was a crucial part of the plot from the beginning, rather the inspiration. Mycroft's thoughts had wandered to John only because of her. He knew that she was dissatisfied sometimes; lonely, perhaps. He could tell by the way she looked out the window in between her savage bursts of texting when they kidnapped John (still a regular occurrence), that she had hopes and dreams, wishes for something else that were unfulfilled. At first he paid no attention to the matter. After all, every one of those ordinary goldfish-people had their dramas. It was to be expected, he and Sherlock had declared as children. So Mycroft chose to place her in charge of finding John's date. He would have her interview and then collect that special someone when she had been found.

But one day, in the midst of preventing an Iraqi airstrike on Antarctica (another day, another military threat), Mycroft had a thought. Much as he liked to lump his PA with the other 7 billion goldfish of the world, 7 billion airheads who had nary an intelligent thought in their lives (he could make the occasional exception), Anthea was rather intelligent. It was why he had selected her for his assistant in the first place. Then another, more brilliant thought came to mind.

Why not let her be the special someone? It was perfect. He would match Anthea with John to make the perfect couple. Of course, she couldn't be informed in advance who she would be meeting... it would spoil the surprise.

* * *

That's how Mycroft hatched his plan.

So, as he clicked the final box of the site survey to confirm the pair's compatibility, hacked the site to fake their consent, and waited for confirmation of their match to appear, Mycroft yawned and decided to celebrate with another slice of cake─the first long gone.

"Strawberry this time ─ tell the chef to hold the fresh-whipped cream," he spoke lazily into the intercom.

A moment later, Anthea appeared, carrying a silver cake stand and cake, which felt shockingly out-of-place adjacent to her polished black blazer and pencil skirt. Mycroft accepted the platter wordlessly. Anthea exhaled, about to leave yet again, but unusually determined, stopped in her tracks and turned back to Mycroft. Her uncontained desire to learn about his business on the dating site overwhelmed her, manifesting itself into a polite question that diverted from her true purpose. She knew him well, and how he would hopefully respond.

"Anything else, Mr. Holmes?"

"There's always something else. And unusually, today it pertains to yourself."

That was something. Her typical duties involved Mr. Holmes on his daily travels, taking care of his paperwork, and doing his less private computing (despite his 6 computers, Anthea was majorly responsible for the grunt work - on her own little laptop). Anthea spoke again, daringly.

"May I ask what exactly you are referring to, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, let's see. Firstly, you are to cancel any activities planned for Friday night. You are needed at precisely 13:00 for a unique task. I have arranged for you a... what's the word?... ah, yes: date."

"Excuse me?!" said Anthea, bewildered, yet simultaneously outraged. "─Mr. Holmes," she added quickly.

"I know you heard me correctly. I never repeat myself," he replied. His eyes searched her expectantly as if waiting for a 'thank you'. There was silence in the room. Anthea could hear nothing but the buzz of computers in action.

"I assume this... task... will aid in the capture of a terrorist group? A threatening persona, perhaps?" she asked warily.

"Not exactly."

Anthea's normally attractive features morphed into raised eyebrows and a quizzical gaze. She could not fathom why Mycroft, of all people, would be asking her to go on a date. Realizing how that sounded, she jumped, startled at the implication. _Did her boss want to... for lack of a better word, take their relationship to the next level?_ But that was impossible. Anthea knew better than anyone how true Moriarty's unique nickname for Mr. Holmes was.

"Why, then, am I to go on a date, Mr. Holmes?"

"That's my business... Anthea. You'd do well not to question my decisions."

"I see... Mr. Holmes."

And with that Anthea departed the office.

The next day, she was informed of the café where she was intended to meet a mysterious man: Mr. Watson. A simple Google search on her part, however, brought up thousands of results, only in the London area. Finding the correct one would be impossible, as Mycroft refused to tell her. Anthea was not told why she was to meet this man, or how to behave, or any of the normal facts that were typically in her assignment folder. In fact, she wasn't even given an assignment folder. She was walking into a potentially dangerous encounter with absolutely no information about who she was meeting. _Oh well_, she thought. _All in a day's work in the office of Mycroft Holmes._

* * *

Anthea almost blew her cover the moment John Watson appeared beside her in the café that Friday. _There was no way this was right! What if John recognized her?_ she thought. But that was impossible. She had disguised herself impeccably that morning: two coats of hair color (blonde instead of her usual dark brown), different clothes, and different makeup. Still, her nerves were at a rare high as she attempted a conversation with the man who was no stranger. She suspected her sentences sounded awkward, but improved throughout their 'date' together until she was positive that she sounded charming, kind, and carefree. John was obviously under the impression that she had chosen to see him in particular, she thought (although John had actually been summoned by an anonymous e-mail message). There was only one problem: in her few moments of surprise, fear, and confusion, Anthea had made a crucial, haunting mistake.

She had told John her real name.


	3. Panic! at the Date Night

**Anthea's Log**

**Oct. 6─** _I'm starting this journal to record any instances when I give away who I am to John. It sounds ridiculous. I just need to tell him, or end whatever the hell it is we have... but I have this feeling that says if I give it up now I'll regret it. So here I am._

**Oct. 21─** _Today I forgot the makeup. Damn. John said something was different when we went out for lunch but he couldn't place it. I thought about it the whole time and had no idea and when I went home I saw it. Damn._

**Oct. 31─** _Luckily today is Halloween so John thought my dyed hair was some kind of strange joke. Mycroft was driving for practically the first time in his life and I could hear the git snickering from the front seat in between his swerving to avoid unfortunate roadkill. I spoke to him about it. I know have one less day off this month. Hmph._

**Nov. 8─** _John arranged a date for us next week. I'm rather pleased but I've got a bad feeling. He's noticing mistakes more and more and I can't possibly keep doing thi_

**Nov. 9─** _I trailed off yesterday because I fell asleep._

**Nov. 14─** _Today I woke up late and wore my 'Anthea' blouse by mistake. And damn it, he noticed. John didn't say anything but I could tell he noticed. He's going to work it out eventually!_

**Nov. 15─** _I'm so stressed out about these I can't even believe. Each day I'm doing worse and worse. Honestly. Shouldn't I should be able to handle this, working for Mycroft all these years? But it seems I can't. Every day I'm worried more._

**Nov. 16─** _Oh, no. Stressful day to say the least, and tomorrow is the date. I am literally praying for a miracle. I'm only going to have an hour to get ready after 'British Government' work, and I don't think it's going to happen._

**Nov. 17**─ _Tonight is the date. Wish me luck._

* * *

Anthea dropped her ballpoint pen onto the notepad, placing it down inside her desk drawer and securing the combination lock built in. She then realized that the pages before had been rolled over the top, and the current page was still revealed. She wished she had time to fix it, being her detail-oriented paranoid self, but there was truly no time. John's cab would arrive in 45 minutes, not nearly the buffer she usually preferred. Damn Mycroft and his "_important business_." Didn't he remember that she had a date? Wasn't it his fault she was set up with John in the first place?

She sighed and turned towards her closet, where a dozen sets of work attire hung neatly on the metal closet rod. Anthea pushed them aside, and reached for a black dress with a cutout on the back, her favorite, although she wore it rarely. Her phone vibrated in the bag on the desk, making Anthea jump and rush to get it.

**From John**\- 18:47. _I'll be picking you up in 30 minutes. -John :)_

Had that much time already passed? Anthea felt a short burst of panic rush through her, but quickly calmed down. It'll be fine. It's always fine.

She changed out of her work clothes and put on the dress, feeling its smooth fabric enclose her. Zipping herself up, she ran to the bathroom, where she shuddered as the tile chilled her bare feet. Realizing there was no time to rewash her hair, Anthea put on her Mary-wig, made a deep side part, and sprayed a whiff of perfume into it. Done.

Again, she heard the buzz of her phone and fumbled on the desk to reach it. Trying to do everything as fast as possible, she grabbed wildly and collided with a glass of water, knocking it off the table and making a sickening crashing sound. Water pooled at her feet, starting to drip through the cracks in the floor.

"Oh no," Anthea groaned, grabbing a towel from the bathroom to wipe it up with. As she polished the floor, she heard footsteps and whipped around. No one was there.

"Must have been someone outside," she breathed, finishing her scrubbing. As she pulled on two inch black heels, a knock sounded at the door.

Anthea's heart felt like it was going to jump into her throat and out her open mouth.

"Oh _no_," she repeated. She quickly checked her surroundings, hoping that she hadn't left anything out, hadn't forgotten anything. She could explain the broken glass, but not her accident log. Fortunately, that was safely stowed in the desk drawer.

"Come in," she called, hesitant, sweeping a singular strand of hair away from her face. Blonde.

She relaxed, standing happily knowing she had finished everything before John arrived. A hand fumbled with the lock outside, and Anthea prepared to meet him. That's when she caught a glance of herself in the full length mirror. Her face was her own.

"_No_," she gasped, swiping a finger against her cheek for makeup and finding her finger clean. "No, no, go away!"

The noise at the lock paused, then another knock was heard. Anthea kept muttering to herself, considering the possibility of escape into the bathroom, where she could claim to be busy. She could do her makeup, adding foundation, taking away the mascara and eye shadow, put colored contacts in, and generally make herself look like the Mary Morstan John knew. But there was no time, he would surely open the door in a second or two, and he would see her...

Another knock at the door. This was it. The "moment of truth," although Anthea wasn't one to use such cliché expressions. More like the "time before all of my disguises collapse and I lose John forever."

Anthea found herself uncharacteristically frozen in place as the man outside called out to her.

Coughing, a hacking dry cough that sounded painful.

Clearing his throat like a speaker about to present.

His knuckles rapping over and over on the neatly framed wooden door directly in front of Anthea.

John, about to come in.

"Can ye lemme in? I got a package for... Morstan?"

The panicked thoughts racing through Anthea's head refused to leave, even when the man's gruff voice was only an echo in her brain.

_It wasn't John._

Anthea was able to breathe at last, and opening the door a crack, she signed the clipboard offered to her, then grabbed the package from the man and waved goodbye. She slammed the door shut and held it closed with her hand, the other stroking her own forehead in small circles of relief.

But, she remembered, there was no time for relaxation. She had gotten away that time, but quite soon it would be John at the door, and she, Anthea, had better be ready to lie. Or else, everything she had worked for throughout these strenuous months would be over.


	4. The Bloody AC

**A/N**: Well, here we are. Months later, I'm back! This isn't that long a chapter, but I wanted to post what I had to help me get used to writing again. Reviews are recommended unless you wish to risk the wrath of one excitable Sherlockian...

**IMPORTANT**: beta credit for this chapter goes to the turquoise goldfish, an awesome beta, writer, and person who you should all bow down to now. Kowtow complete? Good. Now let's get on with it. :P

* * *

Anthea shivered, scowling at the air conditioner for daring to spew such an unnecessary breeze. She folded her arms tightly together. Glancing down at the notebook resting on a regal wooden desk, Anthea identified her own chaotically scrawled letters. She read the same words over and over, knowing she wouldn't have to focus to perceive their meaning. Other thoughts- stronger thoughts- took over, so Anthea pushed away papers and stretched her aching neck.

The bloody AC was still on.

Wondering why manufacturers would sell a device that only shot cold air on chilly days, and why the narrow air channel only intersected with _her_ desk, Anthea stood up. The legs of her chair screeched against her flat's hardwood floors. She grabbed the notebook loosely by its back cover, causing it to swing out of her grasp. Pages fluttered away, landing on the floor. Bending down, Anthea irritably scooped them up, noting a clump of three pages that had detached from the binding, sticking out like a loyal government employee in a sea of double-dealing diplomats.

Anthea groaned. Even her thoughts were tainted by reminders of her capital-G Government work. And, seeing instructions for her in Mycroft's flawless handwriting- dated two months previously... her work never really escaped her, did it?

Anthea was reassembling the book with liberal amounts of tape and staples when her phone rang, vibrating in the pocket of her blazer.

John.

Holding the phone between her shoulder and ear, she waited for him to speak first. (Paranoia, some might say, but that was her life. It had been for years. And honestly, Anthea had been predisposed to that sort of precaution forever, not just since her top-secret employment had begun.)

"Mary?"

"Hi, John."

Anthea's face broke into a quick smile that she couldn't help showing. She loved the tinge of nervousness he always had while talking to her. Mary or Anthea, he reacted the same.

"You all right? I'm just calling from the surgery - bit of a slow day."

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you. Really fine."

"Good. I'm - me too. Only one contagious case today."

Anthea laughed to herself. Knowing John, he was already embarrassed and regretting the weak joke.

"What are you up to?" he asked casually.

"Oh, nothing much-" Anthea avoided telling him that she was engrossed in paperwork for Mycroft Holmes- "Nothing important, really."

"Good."

"You already said that."

"I'm telling it like it is, hmm?"

The two of them kept talking, John rambling about humorous patients, Anthea mostly listening, the way she preferred their phone calls. Talking was dangerous. Dangerous like an evening watching telly with a man who knew her as two different women, and dreading the day he discovered her secret. But Anthea rather enjoyed the call. She sat on her sofa, probably resembling any of the ordinary women John usually dated. Her head rested on her hand, and she smiled almost constantly. It was a strangely content feeling, just listening, sometimes adding thoughts of her own, without pressure. Anthea couldn't help sighing a bit when John finally broke a momentary silence to say good-bye.

"Well, I've got to run."

Sigh.

"Sorry, talk to you later? Will I see you?" he asked.

"Don't worry about it. I'll meet you... tomorrow? Lunch?" Anthea quickly considered a few options before remembering a nice, casual panini place situated a few blocks from Baker Street. She filed a mental note to suggest it.

"I'll call you," he promised.

"Okay."

"Bye, Mary."

"Bye, John..."

"Bye, sorry, Sarah's asking for me..."

"Bye..."

Anthea wasn't sure: had she been the one to hit 'end call'? Had John? Maybe, she finally decided, they had hung up together. The phone was placed back on the desk, where Anthea returned to finish up her work. She glanced at the air conditioner, which had been running uninterrupted the entire time. Why had she wanted so adamantly to turn it off before?─she wasn't cold at all.

The afternoon carried on sleepily. incredibly, Anthea had even less concentration than before. Phrases popped into her head, in John's voice: "did you know it's been months?"─"not like you, of course"─"I'll call you."

Anthea wished, truly, that she and John could last forever.


End file.
